It Will take Time
by OceansAria
Summary: *MAJOR SPOILERS OF EMMA'S PAST* Emma has just given birth and given up her son. She's been bailed out of jail-for the past nine months, her life has been at a standstill. What will she do now that she's free? *JUST A QUICK LITTLE DRABBLE I WANTED TO POST*


**Hi beautiful people! So I'm currently obssessed with Once Upon a Time! It's an amazing show, with many amazing characters (cough cough CAPTAIN HOOK) and I totally love Emma! She's an awesome, strong, bad-a** heroine that won't take no for an answer. **

**Anyhoo, this contains some major spoilers from Emma's past! So if you ain't watched the show, please don't read it! I don't want to ruin anything for you! **

**Alright! Hope you enjoy! Please review!**

**Oh . . . and I almost forgot.**

**CAPTAIN SWANNNNNNNNNNN!**

**Haha. I know. I'm crazy.**

**XOXO, OceansAria :)**

* * *

The next afternoon at around three o'clock, Emma was released from the hospital. She was still slightly weak and beyond famished—but with the middle-aged nurse's help, she made it to the bus stop in front of the hospital.

When there, the nurse helped her settle onto the bench next to an elderly man with no teeth and a shopping cart full of cans and trash by his side. "You sure you'll be alright, dearie?" the nurse asked, eyes shifting between Emma and the old man.

Emma forced the same smile she'd been forcing the entire time she'd been in the hospital, in jail, and since Neal left her to suffer for his crimes. It was a weary, strained thing that said: I'll be fine if you just leave me be. "Yeah. I'm good. My friend is waiting for me at my apartment." She was lying through her teeth. Her friend was her patrol officer and her apartment was just the Home for Women on Twelfth Street. She would be staying there until she got back on her feet.

The nurse gave her a dubious look.

"I'll be just fine," Emma reassured her again, growing tired from all her lies. "Don't worry about me. I can handle myself."

The nurse finally left. In the distance, Emma heard the sound of the bus rumbling down the street and taxi horns blaring. She could smell burning gasoline and mildew. It was all much more comforting than the antiseptic and the hush-hush of the hospital—memories of which she all wanted behind her.

"So, what were you in there for?"

Emma tensed. The gruff voice could only belong to the scraggly being beside her. She didn't even turn her head when she answered. "Oh, you know. My grandfather was dying of lung cancer. I just went to visit him before he passed away."

The old man grunted. "Yeah. Sure."

Emma glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Moving too much hurt. She was still pretty sore from yesterday. "What? You don't believe me?"

"Naw," the man shook his head. "Not for a minute."

So he could see right through her carefully crafted lies. Well, she wasn't at her best at the moment. I mean, for goodness sake—she'd just given birth the day before. A part of her told her to shut her trap and just wait for the bus. But the stubborn, ever dominating side of her said to keep talking to the hobo. "Then what do you think I was in there for?"

He pointed to her stomach, and she felt it coil in sudden anxiety. "Your stomach is bloated, you're tired and cranky, and you walk like you're older than me." He chuckled sarcastically. "You just had a baby."

Emma raised her eyebrow as if what he was saying was absolutely ridiculous. "Pssh. You're crazy, old man." Her heart was beating fast. She didn't want to think about it; about the baby she gave up, the same one she'd carried inside of her for nine months and spoke to when no one was watching. The same baby that was one of the last few pieces of Neal she had left. The baby that was her only family in this entire world.

"I know I am," he said. "But I know it when I see it." His voice suddenly softened. "My wife and I had seven children. I had to carry her through the door when we got home after having each one because she was so tired and sore. So, believe me, I know." Their eyes met and Emma instinctively reached for her womb—which was now empty. Pain filled her and she trembled uncontrollably. She hated showing weakness.

For the rest of the wait for the bus, Emma didn't look at the old man or say anything to him.

But when the bus came to a screeching halt in front of them, he held out a hand to help her up. His voice remained soft, grandfatherly. "Be careful, miss. It will take some time to heal."

Emma felt as if he wasn't just talking about her body, but her heart. Nodding, she took his hand and they boarded the bus together.

* * *

The patrol officer was a young guy named Russell. He had brown wavy hair and brown eyes. His smile was slightly shaky. When Emma walked up to him, he tipped his hat. "Emma Swan. I was worried you weren't gonna show."

"Yeah, well, I kinda don't want to go back to jail, so I thought, what the heck." She shrugged nonchalantly. Crossing her arms over her chest, she braced herself against the cool November breeze.

"I trust you are feeling better after your visit to the hospital?" Russell asked. He didn't mean it wrong—only a few knew that Emma had been pregnant during her months behind bars. Russell only knew that she had not been feeling good and had to be taken to the ER—and that during her time at the hospital, someone anonymously bailed her out of that Hellhole.

She nodded. "Yeah. Thanks for asking."

"Of course." He tipped his hat again—it was like a little twitch of his. He raised his hand in the direction of the House for Women's front door. "Shall we?" Emma wanted to laugh at his chivalry and old-timey words.

"Sure." She took the steps slowly, with Russell falling into step right behind her. She tried to show that she was in great health, but her bloated abdomen would hardly let her.

The house was simple and supposed-to-be homey on the inside. There were quilts and rugs and comfy couches in the living area. The kitchen and eating hall was off to the left; from it emerged a woman that looked like she was fresh off the cover of Grandmas Weekly. She was tiny and frail, with glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a hand-knitted shawl around her shoulders, and an apron on her waist. She even wore a brooch. _A brooch_. Emma hadn't seen someone wear a brooch in ages. She felt a flashback of her childhood in a million different foster homes hit her—but stopped it before it could fully take its toll.

"Mrs. Edna," Russell greeted her cheerfully. "This is Emma Swan."

Mrs. Edna smiled up at Emma with her grandmotherly grin. "Why, aren't you beautiful, love!" she cried, taking Emma's hands in her own. "Those expressive eyes, and that gorgeous blonde hair." Mrs. Edna stroked Emma's locks. "Any man lucky enough to have you is more than lucky enough!" She chuckled at her own joke, patting Emma's knuckles.

Emma forced a chortle. "Thanks."

"Ms. Swan was just released from the hospital," Russell explained to Mrs. Edna. "She was ill, but she's feeling better now. She may still be a little weak. I'm sure she's hungry."

"Oh, poor dear!" Mrs. Edna tightened her grip on Emma's hands. "Come, come. I have tea in the living room! Tea and cookies. I hope you like lady fingers." She winked at Russell, who blushed and then continued to pull Emma along. And though she wanted to resist, she didn't. For just a moment, she wanted someone to take care of her. Even if it was some little old lady that smelled like mothballs and lavender who was being paid to have her there. She'd take it.

* * *

That night, after many more draining hours of making small talk and meeting new people, Emma laid down on her bed in the room she was sharing with five other women. She was one of the youngest in the room. There was Ella on the bed next to her, who was seventeen and a victim of domestic violence who was rumored to sleepwalk and cry all night long. Then there was Sophie, the oldest at twenty-six, who had lost her family in a car wreck and had been living in different girls homes since age eighteen.

Emma lay still and listened to the sounds of the other women getting ready for bed. There was chit-chat and a few giggles, shushes and the whispering of sheets over skin. No one spoke to her. But she could feel their eyes boring into her from all angles. Blocking them out, Emma buried her face into her pillow—which smelled of cheap detergent. She pulled the sheets and her borrowed quilt up over her head and curled into the fetal position.

Again, she instinctively curved her arm around her middle, as if to protect the child there. She'd done this every night since she'd found out she was pregnant. She held back tears as she realized that her child was gone. That she would never see him again. Her little boy. Her _baby_.

And just as she'd done every night, she thought of Neal. She thought of his kiss, his touch, his scent. She thought of all the wonderful things about him. She relished in them.

But then she remembered the bad things.

_He left me. He let me go to jail for him. He left me. I gave birth alone. He was supposed to be here for me! We were supposed to have a life together in Tallahassee. We were supposed to have a happily ever after._

Emma listened to the other women's breathing as they all drifted off. They were all too peaceful, too content with living this life of never knowing where they were going to end up. They didn't care if they never got back on their feet and lived out their lives to the fullest. But Emma wasn't like that.

As soon as she was sure they were all deeply asleep, Emma slipped out of the covers like a snake through its shed skin. She found her boots just where she'd left them. Her jacket hung on the bedpost. She shook the pillow out of the pillowcase and stuffed her few new belongings in it: soap, washcloth, t-shirt, jeans, socks, tennis shoes, and a small wad of bills that she'd snuck from Ms. Edna's purse when she hadn't been looking.

She crept to the window with expertise; using a bobby pin to jiggle the lock free. Throwing one leg and then the other out the window, she slid down the small slope of roof. The familiar sounds of the city hit her like a refreshing gust of air and she actually cracked a genuine smile.

_Happily ever afters aren't real_. She thought bitterly. _There are no such thing as happy endings_.

The minute her feet hit the pavement was the minute her life began-no more poor orphan Emma, no more Neal; no more baby.

No more regrets.


End file.
